


Blouse

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 13:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fingolfin visits in the winter.





	Blouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephers/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ephers’ “Feanor/fingolfin - Seasons” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Curufinwë faces the window as his half-brother’s ushered into his study, the servant quickly retreating afterwards without offering a word of introduction. Ñolofinwë needs no such remarks; Curufinwë already knows him well, and his visits have become too frequent, even with the snow now up to their knees. Curufinwë watches the frost coat his windows and wonders, for the hundredth time, why the Valar bother with such experiments—their shores were better in timeless sun, but that’s just one more reason why these shores now breed discontent in him. He knows, at least, that if he ever were to leave, he’d have the use of his half-brother’s sword.

He’d have a great many other things for the road as well, things that Nerdanel took when she left, and Ñolofinwë would never deny him. Ñolofinwë says nothing as Curufinwë stares out over the whiteness of his gardens, until he deems that Ñolofinwë’s waited long enough.

When Curufinwë turns, he takes in all of Ñolofinwë in one quick sweep of his eyes. There’s a spark of surprise that comes with that first assessment, but he strolls forward nonetheless, deliberately leisurely, as though Ñolofinwë’s visit means nothing to him at all. When he stops, it’s within an arm’s length, and any other would cower away—even Arafinwë doesn’t dare stand so close to him. But Ñolofinwë, for all his softness, stands strong and firm, meeting Curufinwë’s heated gaze. Curufinwë slowly drawls, “Is it so difficult to find good servants amongst your people?”

Ñolofinwë only tilts his head, clearly uncomprehending, and asks, “What makes you say that?”

“They have dressed you entirely out of season,” Curufinwë answers, with a pointed sneer at Ñolofinwë’s bright robes—in vivid blues and lilacs, they depict Yavanna’s flowers in full bloom: robes unmistakably made for _spring_. The confusion seeps out of Ñolofinwë’s face at the words, and the insult seems to pass right through him, as all of Curufinwë’s do, despite Curufinwë’s best efforts to put Ñolofinwë in his place.

In fact, Ñolofinwë dons a little smile, one that fits well across his handsome face and compliments his sharp eyes. His black hair is similarly cheery, twisted in a thick braid and dotted with fresh flowers, swept gracefully over one broad shoulder. The sheer _pleasantness_ of Ñolofinwë’s being drives Curufinwë to add in scathing tones, “Or, perhaps, is the great estate of the _noblest_ son of Finwë too pure to even be touched by snow?”

These subtle, digging aggressions usually get to Ñolofinwë more than the impersonal remarks, but today, Ñolofinwë answers easily, “On the contrary, dear brother, I wear these robes _for you_. I know they are your favourite, except, of course, for my summer attire, wherein I wear very little at all.”

The mere mention of that, of the heat that was brought down on them and the way Ñolofinwë sweat and panted, wearing only hunting trousers and nothing else within the walls of Curufinwë’s bedchambers, sends a slight shiver down Curufinwë’s spine. He remembers well watching blocks of ice melt against Ñolofinwë’s chest, and better yet the salty taste of licking them away afterwards. Ñolofinwë’s hair was often bundled up then, and Curufinwë would tug it loose whenever the whim struck him, using it like reins to make Ñolofinwë kneel at his feet. 

But the spring before was wondrous too, when Curufinwë first saw Ñolofinwë training with a sword, swirling about their father’s gardens with a deadly weapon in his hands but the most delicate silk about his body. They’d spoken more openly than ever before, because Curufinwë had never realized what true _power_ lay beneath Ñolofinwë’s gentle visage. He always knew Ñolofinwë adored him. But when Ñolofinwë first kissed him beneath their father’s favourite cherry blossoms, Curufinwë learned just _how much._

And Ñolofinwë had worn robes like this, as he did all spring, looking both a pretty maiden to be courted and a grand king to be knelt to. That blending, that contradiction, that complexity is what first drew Curufinwë in. Now he’s drawn by the way Ñolofinwë caters to him without truly _submitting_ , and he still wants that submission in spades.

He ignores the explanation, forgets the robes, lifts his eyes to Ñolofinwë’s and asks, “What have you come for?”

“You,” Ñolofinwë answers simply, vulnerable yet coy. “For my estate is indeed shrouded in snow, and I have always been more sensitive to the cold than my fearless brother. I had hoped to warm myself in your fire, provided, of course, that you will permit me.”

Curufinwë thinks a moment, as he often does, of simply tossing Ñolofinwë out into the snow. But the fantasy quickly twists into him following, pinning Ñolofinwë down to the ground and fucking him right there, melting all around them with the force of Curufinwë’s thrusts. He imagines Ñolofinwë would be beautiful when his skin was tinted blue in the pale ice, but then, he’s just as pretty when he’s flushed pink, and it would be equally fun to make him earn a place by Curufinwë’s forge, where the winter can never touch them.

He decides, at last, that Ñolofinwë’s desires aren’t so very different than his own. So he stalks forward to claim his prize.


End file.
